The Gathering Storm (Crown of Stars 5)

A stocky young man stepped forward out of the crowd, trailed by a second, taller companion. They wore rags that shed dirt with each step; they were themselves so filthy it was difficult to make out their features. But he liked the look in their eyes: although they feared him, they each had a keen gaze and an intelligent expression. Their captivity had not beaten them down. They hadn’t given up yet.

“We came here with a fellow we called Silent, for he couldn’t speak or see,” said the stocky one. “They took him into the shafts to walk the wheel. He might live yet, or he might not. The slaves who tread the wheels don’t live long.”

The taller one nodded. “He was a decent fellow, poor lad. But the Captain would know if he still lives. I heard a rumor that the Captain had him cast into the pit in exchange for a pair of gold nomias.”

“The pit?”

“Only dead men are cast into the pit.”

The slaves shuddered, hearing these words; the pit scared them more even than he did.

“I don’t know who would have wanted him dead, though,” added the taller one, “a blind mute as he was.”

His stocky companion nodded. “He wasn’t just an ordinary prisoner. Someone was trying to get him out of the way. He knew something, I’d wager.”

“Where is this wheel? Where is the pit?”

But he already knew. The hounds whined and scratched at the lip of one of the shafts. They knew where their master had gone.

The ones who had made Alain suffer would suffer in their turn. With cold fury in his heart he turned to Last Son. “Kill every man here except the slaves we have freed. They may go free, as they wish. Burn the rest alive.”

Last Son nodded and called out to the archers. By the time Stronghand reached the shaft and turned to clamber down the ladder into the workings, the log house was already ablaze and he heard the shouts and screams of the men inside as they made their final charge, out the door, in a vain attempt to escape.

As he descended, darkness swallowed him. He had his men bring torches such as the miners used, and with rather more difficulty the hounds were lowered after him, down each level and farther down until they reached the lowest wheel. Here, by the wavering, stinking light of pitchblende torches, Sorrow and Rage snuffled all around the wheel and up a low tunnel to a cold, damp hollow worn into the stone where rags and leavings and waste had collected.

Their tails beat the walls, wagging. They stuck their noses into the garbage and whined. Alain wasn’t here, although by the testimony of the hounds he once had been.

“Hsst!” Yeshu stood beside him, head cocked. “Listen!”

They heard the clamor of metal striking stone. A shout, followed by a harsh scream. A few moments later two of his soldiers padded out of the blackness dragging an injured man with a third soldier holding a torch to light their way.

“He and his companion attacked us,” they said. “The other one is dead.”

The captured man moaned, lifting his head. “Mercy,” he croaked. Blood pooled at his shoulder and dripped to the floor. “Mercy, lord. We are only poor miners, defending ourselves.”

“Where is the pit where you cast dead men?”

The man sniveled. “I’ll show you! I’ll show you!”

“You’ll come down with me. Bind up his wound.”

He cried and pleaded as his wound was bound up, and it puzzled Stronghand to see that his fear of the pit outweighed his fear of his captors. What lay down there? Ought he to be afraid also? Yet the unknown had never frightened him. He feared only where he knew danger threatened him, and the unreasoning, babbling terror of this man made him curious.

“Please don’t make me go down!”

The workings lay eerily silent, all sound muffled, the weight of earth heavy over their heads. Water trickled down side passages. Torchlight illuminated ancient scars mottling the walls where stone had been chipped away as miners sought new veins. These rich workings could supply a great treasure-house. It would be worth a great deal to him to possess mines like this.

The captive staggered to a halt at the edge of a shaft plunging down into the earth. Light did not penetrate far; it was pitch-black below, empty, although a faintly sulfurous wind skirled up from the depths like the breath of a buried giant long asleep.

“We’ll need rope,” said Stronghand, understanding the risk he took. If his men were not loyal, they could strand him there. But OldMother wanted Alain; he wanted Alain. He had to take the chance. And, in truth, the gamble made his blood sing.

With rope lashed around his torso, he allowed himself to be lowered down and down and down, using his feet to balance himself away from the sheer wall and probing ahead with his spear until he found rock beneath him. He untied himself and tugged twice on the rope, then waited as both hounds, the miner, young Yeshu all strung about with coils of rope, and a Rikin soldier laden with four torches, an ax, and more rope arrived.

They were ready to explore. They tied more rope to the main rope and strung it behind them as the hounds sniffed forward into a labyrinth of passageways, blind alleys, one breakdown where blocks of stone littered the passageway, and a dead end—a sloping cavernous chamber ridged with ledges where the hounds snuffled with great interest for a long while before turning and leading them back in a different direction.

They scooted down a steep incline while the miner moaned under his breath until the sound so grated on Stronghand’s nerves that he whirled around and brought the edge of his knife to the man’s throat.

“There’s nothing here.” He knew the words as truth as he spoke them. No living scent touched his nostrils. He heard no echo of footfalls, no whisper of scuttling movement, no monster’s slither or the fluttering breath of an ancient evil lying in wait.